Mowen's sharp intake of breath jolted him awake once more. It was the same recurring dream, sprinting across endless fields toward a grand school. But this time, the scene felt more vivid, more haunting.
In this dream, strange faces and scary events were everywhere. Shadows held scary beings, and the spirits of lost loved ones stayed close.
Mowen's dreams danced across his mind like a silent movie, replaying themselves over and over as he slept. Each time he attempted to see himself clearly, his features remained blurred.
In these dreams, he also returned to his familiar childhood bedroom, where everything remained frozen in the past: the soft glow of the orange lamp, his father's figure still seated at the desk, immersed in the world of books.
"Dad, what are you looking at?" Little Mowen asked as his father lifted him up from his midnight awakening, holding him close.
"Another nightmare?" his dad Morlin chuckled.
"Dad, is that little figure holding a spear fighting?" Little Mowen asked, gesturing toward a book illustration.
"Yes, this is what people from the past see of the future."
"Can we see the future too?"
"We can."
"Then why can't I see it?" Little Mowen's eyes brimmed with curiosity.
"Just go back to sleep, once you're asleep, you'll see."
Rubbing his sleepy eyes, Little Mowen extricated himself from his father's warm embrace and slipped back into bed. In an instant, he was enveloped by dreams again, leaving the world of his father's presence for the mysteries of his subconscious.
His father always spent his savings on buying one ancient book after another, yet Mowen couldn't recall the contents of any. His father would silently gaze at the pages, as if searching for hidden secrets or clues left for future readers, which had become his greatest entertainment after work.
Until one day three years ago, when Father received a letter, he hastily packed his bags, called Mowen who was in college, and said he had to go out for a while. Since then, he has never come back.
For Mowen, all of this ceased to be mere dreams; it became a gateway to the past, where his father was still there, where friends and villagers were still alive. Even if Little Mowen woke up from a nightmare in the middle of the night, as long as he saw that orange light, saw his father's silhouette, he could peacefully drift back to sleep.
Mowen loved dreaming; in his dreams, he could meet his father again. Sometimes, he even wished that the world in his dreams was the real world, and reality was but a dream. If he had to wake up every day, he hoped to meet his father again.
But now, upon waking up, Mowen would feel dazed, not knowing where he was, not knowing whether he was in reality or still in the dream. After a while, facing the black and yellow walls, the rough bunk bed above him, and the peeling paint on the bed frame, his consciousness gradually awakened.
Oh, he remembered now; this was the basement he rented.
Mowen got up from bed, shaking off the lingering images from his dreams. As he readied himself for the day, he put on his helmet and headed out, his mind still processing the haunting night.
The roads were now filled with vehicles, neon lights still flickering on both sides of the road, adding a layer of splendor to the just-awakened city.
In this busy city, where concrete structures dominate the landscape, wildlife and greenery are scarce. Private breeding and cultivation are strictly regulated, confined to specific areas designated for such purposes—mainly meat farms and vegetable plantations.
Interestingly, the city underwent a notable transformation after reports of a laboratory leaksurfaced years ago. Apart from a surge in vodka sales, this remains the sole significant change.
One business building stood tall in the center of the city, its silver-gray reinforced concrete walls embedded with reflective glass windows, blocking out the warm sunlight outside mercilessly.
Mowen was an ordinary worker in this unfamiliar city. When he first arrived in the big city, he was barely in his early twenties, slightly thin, with a warm smile on his youthful face.
His hair was tidy and short, styled in a straightforward manner. His eyebrows were a bit thick, and his eyes were bright, reflecting bravery and resolve—much like a youthful falcon.
After graduating from university, he could have had a decent and stable job back in his hometown with his excellent grades. However, harboring a restless and hopeful heart, he boarded the train to the big city.
He hoped to realize his dreams here through his efforts and abilities, to find a decent job, buy a comfortable house, marry a beautiful wife, and live a happy life.
He also wanted to prove that he wasn't a failure, applying for a job at a big company, doing a three-month unpaid internship, and six months of free labor. He struggled step by step.
Working 10-15 hours a day, he found that the big city was a brutally competitive place. Day after day, he encountered a multitude of workplace hurdles: demanding expectations from his manager and exclusion by his coworkers. Simultaneously, the cost of living weighed heavily on him, with skyrocketing rents and soaring prices.
Sometimes, he felt like a stranger, living lonely in this bustling city. Fortunately, there was Lincoln, his fellow villager who came to the big city with him.
The two of them came to the big city together, entered the same company, and interned together. Unfortunately, nine months later, Mowen still hadn't secured a formal employment opportunity, while Lincoln remained fortunate enough to retain his position.
Mowen waited for the opportunity to enter another company; he heard that delivering parcels could support himself, so he started doing it. In big city of District 19, delivering parcels and doing cleaning were occupations that the locals looked down upon. However, to make ends meet, Mowen fearlessly embarked on an unfamiliar career path and even purchased an electric bike.
Many of Mowen's parcels were for the company he had interned at. Most people would find it embarrassing to see their former colleagues again, but Mowen didn't mind. As long as he could earn money to support himself, that was enough.
Another busy day began.
The elevator rose to the 23th floor, facing him was the grand glass door of Power Company. Stepping into the lobby, bright lights illuminated the air, with a faint scent of coffee lingering. Each desk was filled with documents, computers, and various office supplies, as if every inch of space was fully utilized.
The office was filled with the rhythmic tapping of keyboards and clicking of mice as people sat at their desks, focused on their screens. They were busy typing data, composing emails, and handling reports, their fingers moving quickly across the keyboards.
Mowen looked at the familiar scene, familiar faces, feeling a sense of warmth. He approached the front desk, where a new girl was handling delivery documents somewhat awkwardly.
Mowen casually observed the office staff in their matching outfits, bustling about. Some carried folders, while others anxiously lingered outside the boss's office. A few hovered by the printer, waiting for their documents to print.
As Mowen made his way towards the exit, a figure caught his eye in the open office space. The familiarity of the person struck him. It was Lincoln—Lincoln Chase, to be precise. He was looking a bit pale and tired, wearing his usual white shirt and standing with a slightly hunched posture.
Lincoln stood outside the material department's tall reception desk, queueing up with a portable drive in hand. Inside, the employees appeared to be passionately discussing plans to celebrate the boss's wife's birthday at the boss's house over the weekend.
Lincoln's heart drummed; he knew this colleague was quite difficult to deal with, but the personnel in this department were all related to some big shot, and no one dared to offend them.